CHAPTER X
A “pensive Nun, devout and pure, Sober, stedfast, and demure.”
—- Il Penseroso[^1]
WHEN THE TWO LADIES were alone, there were a few moments of embar- rassed and uninterrupted silence, a rare occurrence between two confi- dential young friends. Hope Leslie was the first to speak. “Come, my dear Esther,” she said, “it is in vain for you to think of hiding your heart from me; if you do not fairly conduct me through its mazes, 1 shall make use of the clue you have dropped, and find my own way through the labyrinth.”
“Hope Leslie — what clue do you mean? You should not trifle thus.”
“Well then, I will be as serious as you please, and most solemnly demand why thou hast never hinted to the friend of thy bosom, that thou hadst seen, in thine own country, this youth, Everell Fletcher, of whom I have, at divers times and sundry places, most freely spoken to thee?”
“I never told you I had not seen him.”
“Oh no! but methinks, for a godly, gracious maiden, as thou art, Esther; approved by our elders, the pattern of our deacons’ wives; your actions, as well as your language, should be the gospel ‘yea, yea, and nay, nay;’ this ‘paltering with a double sense,’ as the poet has it, would better become a profane damsel, like myself.”
“If I have lacked sincerity, I merit your reproach; but I meant to have told you. Mr. Fletcher’s arrival now was unexpected” —
“And you were indisposed? your nerves deranged? your circulations disordered? I thought so, when I saw that burning blush, that looked, even through the folds of your veil, as if it would set it on fire; but now your surprise is over, why look so like the tragic muse? Raise up your eyes and look at me, dear Esther, and do not let those long eye-lashes droop over your pale cheek, like a weeping willow over the monumental marble.”
“Oh, Hope Leslie! if it were not sinful, I could wish that monumental marble might press the clods on my cold bosom.”
Hope was startled at the unaffected solemnity, and deep distress, of her friend: every pulsation of her heart was audible, and her lips, which before were as pale as death, became absolutely blue. She threw her arms around her, and kissed her tenderly. “Dear, dear Esther,” she said, “forgive me for offending thee. I never will ask thee any thing again — never, so long as I live. You may look glad, or sorry — blush, or faint — do any thing you please, and I never will ask you for a reason.”
“You are very kind, very generous, Hope; but have you not, already, guessed the secret 1 have striven to hide? — you hesitate — answer me truly.”
“Why, then, if I must answer truly — perhaps, I have,” replied Hope, looking, in spite of herself, as archly as the mischievous little god, w hen he sees one of his own arrows trembling in the heart; “ ‘set a thief to catch a thief,’ dear Esther, is an old maxim; and though I have never felt this nervous malady, yet, you know, I am skilled in the books that describe the symptoms, thanks to aunt Grafton’s plentiful stock of romances and plays.”
“Oh most unprofitable skill! but I have no right to reproach thee, since what hath been but the sport of thy imagination, is my experience — degrading experience. Whatever it may cost me, you shall know r all, Hope Leslie. You have jusdy reproached me with insincerity — I will, at least, lighten my conscience of the burden of that sin.”
Hope’s curiosity was on tiptoe; and notwithstanding her generous resolution, not voluntarily to penetrate her friend’s mystery, she was delighted with the dawn of a disclosure, which, she believed, would amount to a simple confession of a tender sentiment. She sincerely pitied Miss Downing’s sufferings; but it is, perhaps, impossible for a third person to sympathise fully with feelings of this nature. “Now r , Esther,” she said, sportively, “fancy me to be the priest, and yourself the penitent. Confess freely, daughter — our holy church, through me, her most unworthy servant, doth offer thee full absolution.”
“Stop, stop, Hope Leslie — do not trifle with holy words, and most unholy rites; but listen, seriously, and compassionate a weakness that can never be forgotten.”
Miss Downing then proceeded to relate some of the following par- ticulars; but as her narrative was confused by her emotions, and as it is necessary our readers should, for the sake of its illustration, be possessed of some circumstances which were omitted by her, we here give it, more distinctly, in our own language.
Esther was the daughter of Emanuel Downing , 2 the husband of Governor Winthrop’s sister, so often mentioned by that gentleman in his journal, as the faithful and useful friend of the pilgrims, whom he finally joined in New-England.
Esther Downing was of a reserved, tender, and timid cast of charac- ter, and being bred in the strictest school of the puritans, their doctrines and principles easily commingled with the natural qualities of her mind. She could not have disputed the nice points of faith, sanctification and justification, with certain celebrated contemporary female theologians, but no one excelled her in the practical part of her religion. In the language of the times, justification was witnessed, both by word, and work.
That young ladies were often indulged in a moderate degree of personal embellishment, we learn from one of the severest pilgrim sati- rists, who avers, that he was ‘no cynic to the due bravery of the true gentry,’ and allows that ‘a good text always deserves a fair margent.’ Miss Downing was certainly a pure and beautiful ‘text,’ but her attire never varied from the severest gospel simplicity. It is possible that she was fortified in this self-denying virtue, by that lively little spirit, (that ever hovers about a woman’s toilette) whispering in her ear, that all the arts of the tyring- woman could not improve the becomingness of her Madonna style. She wore her hair, which was of a sober brown line, parted on her forehead, and confined behind in a braid that was so adjusted, it may be accidentally, as to perfectly define the graceful contour of her head. Her complexion was rather pale, but so exquisitely fair and transparent, that it showed the faintest tinge of colour, and set off, to the greatest advantage, features, which, if not striking, had the admitted beauty of perfect symmetry. She was, at least, half a head taller than our heroine, or the Venus de Medicis; but as neither of these were standards with the pilgrims, no one who ventured to speak of the personal graces of Esther Downing, ever impeached their perfection. Spiritual graces were then, (as they should always be) in far higher estimation, than external charms, and Miss Down- ing, who would have been a reigning belle in our degenerate times, was always characterized by a religious epithet — she was the ‘godly,’ or the ‘gracious maiden.’ She attained the age of nineteen, without one truant wish straying beyond the narrow bound of domestic duty and religious exercises; but the course of youth and beauty ‘never doth run smooth,’ and the perils that commonly beset it, now assailed the tender Esther.
Everell Fletcher came to her father’s, to pass two months. He had then, for some years, resided in the family of his uncle Stretton, a moderate churchman; who, though he had not seen fit to eradicate the religious and political principles that had been planted in the mind of the boy, had so tempered them, that, to confess the truth, the man fell far below the standard of puritanism. At first Esther was rather shocked, by the unsub- dued gaiety, the unconstrained freedom, and the air of a man of society, that distinguished Everell from the few demure solemn young men of her acquaintance; but there is an irresistible charm in ease, simplicity, and frankness, when chastened by the refinements of education, and there is a natural affinity in youth, even when there is no resemblance in the charac- ter; and Esther Downing, who, at first, remained in Everell’s presence but just as long as the duties of hospitality required, soon found herself lingering in the parlor, and strolling in the walks, that were his favourite resort. It seemed as if the sun had risen on her after a polar winter, and cheerfulness and her pleasant train sprung up in a mind that had been chilled and paralyzed by the absence of whatever cherishes the gay temper of youth; but it was, after all, but the stinted growth of a polar summer.
She felt a change stealing over her — new^ thoughts were in her heart —
“And love and happiness their theme.”
She did not investigate the cause of this change, but suffered the current of her feelings to flow unchecked, till she was roused to reflection by her serving maid, who said to her mistress, one evening when she came in from a long moon-light w alk with Everell, “our worthy minister has been here today, and he asked me, w'hat kept you from the lecture-room, so oft, of late? I minded him it rained last night. He said, that in months past no tempest detained you from the place of worship. 1 made no answer to that — beside, that it was not for me to gainsay the minister. He stood, as if meditating a minute, and then he took up your psalm-book, and, as he did so, a paper dropped with some verses written on it, and he said, with almost a smile, ‘ah, Judy, then your young lady tries her hand, sometimes, at versifying the words of the royal psalmist?”’
“Did he look at the lines, Judy?” asked Esther, blushing deeply with the consciousness that they were but a profane sentimental effusion.
“Yes, my lady — but he looked solemnized and said nothing more about them; but turning to me and speaking as if he would ask a question, he said, ‘Judy, it was your mistress’ wont to keep the wheel of prayer in perpetual motion. I doubt not her private duty is still faithfully done?’ 1 answered to him, that your honoured parents had been absent the last week, and you had company to entertain, and you were not quite as long at closet-exercise as usual.”
“Judy, you were very ready with your excuses for me,” said her mistress, after a moment’s thoughtfulness.
“It must be a dumb dog, indeed,” replied the girl, “that cannot bark for such a kind mistress as thou art.”
How often does an accident — a casual word even — serve as a key to unlock feelings of which the possessor has been unconscious. The con- scientious girl was suddenly awakened from what appeared to her a sinful dream. Had she perceived, on investigation, a reciprocal sentiment in Everell Fletcher, she would probably have permitted her feelings to flow in their natural channel; but not mingling with his, they were, like a stream, that being dammed-up, flows back, and spreads desolation, where it should have produced life and beauty.
The severest religionists of the times did not require the extinction of the tenderest human affections. On the contrary, there was, perhaps, never a period when they were more frequently and perfectly illustrated. How many delicate women, whom the winds of heaven had never visited roughly, subscribed with their lives to that beautiful declaration of af- fection from a tender and devoted wife — “Whithersoever your fatall destinie,” she said to her husband, “shall dryve you, eyther by the furious waves of the great ocean, or by the manifolde and horrible dangers of the lande, I will surely beare you company. There can be no peryll chaunce to me so terrible, nor any kynde of deathe so cruell, that shall not be much easier for me to abyde than to live so farre separate from you.”
But though human affections were permitted, they were to be in manifest subservience to religious devotion — their encroachments w r ere watched with a vigilance resembling the jealousy with which the Israelites defended, from every profane footstep, the holy circle around the ark of the living God. It was this jealousy that now alarmed the fearful super- stitious girl; and after some days of the most unsparing self-condemnation, embittered by an indefinite feeling of disappointment, she fell into a dangerous illness; and in the paroxysms of her fever, she prayed fervendv that her Creator would resume the spirit, which had been too weak, to maintain its fidelity. It seemed as if her prayer were soon to be granted — she felt herself, and was pronounced by her physician, to be on the verge of the grave. She then was inspired with a strong desire, proceeding, as she believed, from a divine intimation, but which might possibly have sprung from natural feeling, to open her heart to Everell. This disclosure, followed by her dying admonition, would, she hoped, rescue him from the vanities of youth. She accordingly requested her mother to conduct him to her bedside, and to leave them alone for a few moments; and when her request was complied with, she made, to the astonished youth, in the simplicity and sincerity of her heart, a confession, that in other circumstances the rack would not have extorted.
At first, Fletcher fancied her reason was touched. He soothed her, and attempted to withdraw, to call her attendants. She interpreted his thoughts, assured him he was mistaken, and begged that he would not waste one moment of her ebbing life. He then knelt at her bedside, took her burning hand in his, and bathed it with tears of deep commiseration, and tender regret. He promised to lay up her exhortations in his heart, and cherish them as the law of his life; but he did not intimate that he had ever felt a sentiment responding to hers. There was that in the solemnity of the death-bed, in her purity and truth, that would have rebuked the slightest insincerity, however benevolent the feeling that dictated it.
This strange interv iew lasted but a few moments. Miss Downing, in the energy of her feeling, raised herself on her elbow — the effort ex- hausted her, and she sunk back in a stupor which appeared to be the immediate precursor of death. Her friends flocked around her, and Fletcher retired to his own room, filled with sorrowful concern at the involuntary influence he had exercised on this sensitive being, who seemed to him far better fitted for heaven, than for earth.
But Miss Downing was not destined yet to be translated to a more congenial sphere. Her unburthened heart reposed, after its long strug- gles— the original cause of her disease was lightened, if not removed, and the elasticity of a youthful constitution rose victorious over her malady. She never mentioned Everell Fletcher; but she heard, incidentally, that he had remained at her father’s, till she was pronounced out of danger, and had then gone to his uncle Stretton’s, in Suffolk.
The following autumn, her father, in compliance with a request of Madam Winthrop, and in the hope that a voyage would benefit her health, which was still delicate, sent her to Boston. There she met Hope Leslie— a bright gay spirit — an allegro to her penseroso. They were unlike in every thing that distinguished each; and it was therefore more probable, judging from experience, that they would become mutually attached. Whatever the theory of the affections may be, the fact was, that they soon became inseparable and confidential friends. Hope sometimes ventured to rally Esther on her over-scrupulousness, and Miss Downing often rebuked the laughing girl’s gaiety; but, however variant their dispositions, they melted into each other, like light and shade, each enhancing the beauty and effect of the other.
Hope often spoke of Everell, for he was associated with all the most interesting recollections of her childhood, and probably with her visions of the future; for what girl of seventeen has not a lord for her air-built castles?
Miss Downing listened calmly to her description of the hero of her imagination, but never, by word or sign, gave token that she knew aught of him, other than was told her; and the secret might have died with her, had not her emotion, at Everell’s unexpected appearance, half revealed the state of her heart to her quick-sighted friend. This revelation she finished by a full confession, interrupted by tears of bitter mortification.
“Oh!” she concluded, “had I but known how to watch and rule my own spirit, I should have been saved these pangs of remorse and shame.”
“My dear Esther,” said Hope, brushing away the tears of sympathy that suffused her eyes, “I assure you 1 am not crying because I consider it a crying case; you people that dwell in the clouds have always a mist before you; now I can see that your path is plain, and sure the end thereof; just give yourself up to my guidance, who, though not half so good and wise as you are, am far more sure-footed. I do not doubt in the least, Everell feels all he ought to feel. I defy any body to know you and not love you, Esther. And do you not see, that if he had made any declaration at the time, it might have seemed as if he were moved by pity, or gratitude. He knew you was coming to New-England, and that he was to follow you; and now he has anticipated his return by some weeks, and why, nobody knows, and it must be because you are here — don’t you think so? You will not speak, but I know by your smile what you think, as well as if you did.”
Arguments appear very sound that are fortified by our wishes, and Miss Downing’s face was assuming a more cheerful expression, when Jennet (our old friend Jennet) came into the room to give the young ladies notice to prepare for dinner, and to inform them that Sir Philip Gardiner was to dine with them — “and a godly appearing man he is,” said Jennet, “as ever I laid my eyes on; and it is a wonder to me, that our Mr. Everell should have fallen into such profitable company, for, I am sorry to see it, and loath to say it, he looks as gay as when he used to play his mad pranks at Bethel — when it was next to an impossibility to keep you and him. Miss Hope, from talking and laughing even on a Sabbath day. I think,” she continued, glancing her eye at Miss Downing, “sober companions do neither of you any good; and it is so strange Mr. Everell should come home with his hair looking like one of those heathen pictures of your aunt’s.”
“Oh! hush Jennet! it would be a sin to crop those dark locks of Mr. Everell.”
“A sin indeed, Miss Leslie! That is the way you always turn things wrong side out; a sin to have his hair cropped like his father’s — or the honourable Governor’s — or this Sir Philip Gardiner’s — or any other Christian man’s.”
“Well, Jennet, I wish it would come into your wise head, that Christian tongues were not made for railing. As to my being serious to-day, that is entirely out of the question; therefore, you may spare yourself hint and exhortation, and go to my aunt, and ask her for my blue boddice and necklace. But no — ” she said, stopping Jennet, for she recollected that she had directed the blue boddice because it matched her blue fillet, Everell’s gift, and a secret voice told her she had best, under existing circumstances, lay that favourite badge aside. “No, Jennet, bring me my pink boddice, and my ruby locket.” Jennet obeyed, but not without muttering as she left the room, a remonstrance against the vanities of dress.
Jennet was one of those persons, abounding in every class of life, whose virtues are most conspicuous in “damning sins they are not inclined to.” We ought, perhaps, to apologise for obtruding so humble and dis- agreeable a personage upon our readers. But the truth is, she figured too much on the family record of the Fletchers, to be suppressed by their faithful historian. Those personages, yclep’d bores in the copious vocabu- lary of modern times, seem to be a necessary ingredient in life, and like pinching shoes, and smoky rooms, constitute a portion of its trials. Jennet had first found favour with Mrs. Fletcher from her religious exterior. To employ none but godly servants was a rule of the pilgrims; and there were certain set phrases and modes of dress, which produced no slight impres- sion upon the minds of the credulous. To do Jennet justice, she had many temporal virtues; and though her religion was of the ritual order, and, therefore, particularly disagreeable to her spiritual Mistress, yet her house- hold faculties were invaluable, for then, as now, in the interior of New- England, a faithful servant was like the genius of a fairy tale — no family could hope for more than one.
Long possession legalized Jennet’s right, and increased her tyrannical humours, which were naturally most freely exercised on those members of the family, who had grown from youth to maturity under her eye. In nothing was the sweetness of Hope Leslie’s temper more conspicuous, than in the perfect good nature with which she bore the teasing imperti- nencies of this menial, who, like a cross cur, was ready to bark at every passer by.
Youth and beauty abridge the labours of the toilet, and our young friends, though on this occasion unusually solicitous about the impression they were to make, were not long in attiring themselves; and when Mrs. Grafton presented herself to attend them to dinner, they were awaiting her. “Upon my word,” she said, “young ladies, you have done honour to the occasion; it is not every day we have two gentlemen fresh from Old England to dine with us; I am glad you have shown yourselves sensible of the importance of the becomings. It is every woman’s duty, upon all occasions, to look as well as she can.”
“And a duty so faithfully performed, my dear aunt,” said Hope, “that I fancy, like other duties, it becomes easy from habit.”
“Easy,” replied Mrs. Grafton, with perfect naivete; “second nature, my dear — second nature. I was taught from a child, to determine the first thing in the morning, what I should wear that day; and now it is as natural to me as to open my eyes when I wake.”
“I should think, madam,” said Esther, “that other and higher thoughts were more fitting a rational creature, preserved through the night-watches.”
Hope was exquisitely susceptible to her aunt’s frailties, but she would fain have sheltered them from the observation of others. “Now, my gentle Esther,” she whispered to Miss Downing, “lecturing is not your vocation, and this is not lecture day. On jubilee days slaves were set free, you know, and why should not follies be?”
Miss Downing could not have failed to have made some sage reply to her friend’s casuistry, but the ringing of a bell announced the dinner, and the young ladies, arm in arm, followed Mrs. Grafton to the dining-room. Just as they entered, Hope whispered, “remember, Esther, the festal day is sacred, and may not be violated by a sad countenance.” This was a well- timed caution; it called a slight tinge to Miss Downing’s cheeks, and relieved her too expressive paleness.
Everell Fletcher met them at the door. The light of his happiness seemed to gild every object. He complimented Mrs. Grafton on her appearance; told her she had not, in the least, changed since he saw her — an implied compliment, always, after a woman has passed a certain age. He congratulated Miss Downing upon the very apparent effect of the climate on her health, and then, breaking through the embarrassment that slightly constrained him in addressing her, he turned to Hope Leslie, and they talked of the past, the present, and the future, with spontaneous anima- tion; their feelings according and harmonising, as naturally as the music of the stars when they sang together.